Asril plucked a roast mushroom from off a rock beside the fire and blew on it.
“There are two more villages along this route. Equally poor I expect, but then we turn east.” He popped the sufficiently cooled mushroom into his mouth and chewed with relish.
Berenger frowned as a woman fled screaming from a dwelling. She wore nothing but sandals, the rest of her garments having been ripped from her body by rough hands earlier that afternoon. With offended curses and grunts of pain, a drunken warrior staggered from the building, nursing a gash to his face.
The woman was quickly surrounded by the men who had been feasting at the fire, their taunts and grasping fingers driving her into the center of a waning circle.
“Careful fellas, she pulled my blade and she is fast with it.” The injured warrior cautioned them.
The tax collector, watching the unfolding drama, scratched at his crotch absently.
“That will take us into northern Bastetani lands. Towards Tagilit.” Berenger continued, confident that his men would not allow the woman to escape to tell the tale of her village’s doom.
“Ah, you know the land then.” Asril threw a worthless trinket into the fire and looked up to see a spray of blood amongst the men accompanied by wild yelling and hooting. The woman had slashed her throat rather than be degraded further. Swaying for a long bloody moment, she painted her attackers with her life blood before collapsing at their feet.
The tax collector swallowed the last of the mushroom.
“Your men can do as they like out here, but once we get to the villages closer to Tagilit, they will need to be restrained.”
Berenger tapped the blade of the knife on his knee. The tax collector’s voice had grown reedy with fear at daring to suggest he exercise discipline on his men. The man would be a perfect disguise for Berenger. At least until the trail of sacked and pillaged villages grew too numerous for even the most gullible to believe they had all resisted paying their taxes. By then though, Berenger estimated he would have acquired a fortune in goods, including silver and gold from the villages around Tagilit which were far wealthier than these remote farming settlements.
“My men will do as I tell them.” Berenger flicked the knife and this time it flew in a dazzling streak to impale a lizard warming itself in the afternoon sun on a nearby log.
The days were growing shorter, the nights longer and soon it would be the shortest day of the calendar. For Caros, the time had passed in a blur of long discussions with the elders and visiting graybeards from far flung Bastetani villages. All told identical tales of tax collectors sent from the Carthaginian’s capital city, Qart Hadasht who taxed the people not once but multiple times.
“We are not alone in our plight! The Oretani to the west are starving, their women come begging at our markets and more often than not thieve from our people.”
A bowlegged graybeard with red cheeks and plaited beard was standing, fist clenched, addressing the gathered elders.
“Their warriors and ours have spoken. If nothing is done, we will fight side by side to take back from the commissars what we need to feed our children!”
Caros had heard more and more warriors speak of violence towards the Carthaginian appointed commissars. Coming from the hearts of warriors, this was not surprising, but what had alarmed him was the number of elders who spoke of revolting against the Carthaginians.
“If they do not cease their tax collections and offer us restitution, we will have no choice but to either starve or fight.” The graybeard turned so that his words were directed at Caros who stood in the inner circle of listeners.
The night was closing on them and darkness gathering on the street beyond the walls and curtained doorway. Heln and her two girls had been run ragged pouring ale all afternoon. More and more the talk turned to resolving their issues with Carthaginian taxes and levies with their blades. Caros judged it was time to call for a decision on which elders and graybeards would accompany him to Qart Hadasht to make know their grievances and request a judgement.
“There will be no need to raise our spears.” Caros spoke above the hubbub the graybeard’s words caused. “With the weight of every elder behind our plea to Hasdrubal Barca, it is a certainty that we will see justice.” Men and women jeered while others rapped their drinking bowls on tabletops. “We must decide which elders will accompany me.”
What followed was a succession of insults reinforced by thrown fists and in one instance an elder upending a bowl of uncooked innards over another. Finally, when tempers had cooled and bloodied noses were wiped on tunic sleeves, five elders had been elected to represent their grievances to the Barca.
Maleric was fondling a large woman who lounged on his lap. He kicked an insensate drunk off the bench nearest him, clearing a space for Caros who slumped onto it.
“Not one knifing. Your people have no killer spirit.” His eyes glinted drunkenly.
“There was blood and guts. What more do you want?”
“Goose livers do not count. Among the Boii, there would be new faces in the pavilion of ancestors.” He grinned wickedly. “And a whole generation of new feuds begun.”
Neugen appeared, shoving his way through the dispersing elders. His face was radiant.
“Your wife finally let you into her bed?”
Caros taunted his friend, knowing that Neugen worshipped the ground his woman trod on. Maleric muttered into the ear of the woman plastered to him and she laughed and ran her hand across the front of braccae as she rose.
“I will hold you to that promise big man.” She called over her shoulder as she walked away.
Maleric grinned and adjusted himself as he gestured to Heln for yet another refill of his constantly empty vessel.
“This beer your farmers brew smells like goat piss, but it gets tastier by the bowl.”
“Yes, it also has the uncanny ability to turn your spear to rope at the wrong moment.”
Neugen batted Maleric’s big feet off the stool opposite and sat, elbows on knees and head pushed forward. “Just heard some rich news my friends.” He grinned up at Heln as she brought over a new jug of ale. “Pour yourself a bowl Heln, you will want to hear this too.”
“If you are going to be giving it away, then you are paying for that jug.” Maleric mumbled.
“Not another of your silly jests I hope.”
Caros found himself holding a bowl of ale in his hand as Heln poured them all drinks and joined the circle. He raised it.
“Too good news! It is good news I take it?” He knew Neugen well and his friend was virtually trembling with excitement.
“I heard it read from an official messenger’s tablet on my way here.” He lifted his bowl and sipped, savoring both the ale and the looks on his friend’s faces. “Where is Rappo? He should be here too.”
Maleric growled. “Like a bloody virgin flaunting her tits, but never quite delivering.”
Heln caught the eye of one her girls. “Fetch Prince Rappo!” She smiled at the men. “He has them eating out of his hand in the kitchens. Always making them pretty bracelets and belts.”
Rappo arrived a moment later, his face ruddy from the warmth in the kitchen and Heln gave him a motherly smile which he returned.
Neugen could not restrain himself any longer.
“There has been news from Italy. Great news!”
Maleric tensed and sat forward while Caros set his bowl down and with an encouraging nod to Neugen.
“Hannibal has crossed the mountains!” He whispered in awe.
Neugen grinned and rubbed his hands. “Better even. He has taken the battle to Rome’s legions.”
Four full moons had passed since Hannibal Barca had crossed the Rhone and gone on to enter the vast mountain range that guarded the northern lands of the Italian peninsular. In that time rumors had abounded as to his fate and that of his army of African mercenaries. Most held that they had all perished; set upon by wild men and magical beasts that tore their flesh apart and cracked open their bone
s to dine on the marrow.
Caros had known that if any man could take an army through those dangerous reaches it would be the Barca general. He found himself grinning happily.
“He did it!” He slapped the table. “I wager the Romans pulled up their tunics and ran like bitches!”
Neugen emptied his bowl and threw it down with a belch. His expression left no doubt there was more and Caros nearly sprang at him to get his tongue flapping. Maleric ground his teeth and balled his fists while Rappo and Heln caught one another’s eye and smiled at the tension.
“It is said that Hannibal faced a Roman general, with some cursed long name and yes, defeated him in a battle.”
Caros hooted and slapped his thighs.
“Of course he did!”
Those elders that had not departed realized there was news to be heard and once Neugen recounted it to them, they too called for more drinks and soon there was a lively celebration.
As the ale flowed and laughter grew, Maleric had retreated into the shadows, not even a bowl of drink in his hand.
“Ho, is something ailing you, my friend?” Caros clung to a post to keep his balance.
Maleric scratched a louse out of his hair and crushed it with an audible pop.
“I fear my people will be too easily beguiled by Hannibal and his promises.”
Caros surrendered to the ale and slumped onto the bench beside the Gaul.
“True, Hannibal is gifted at making people see matters his way and throwing their lot in with him.”
“The Boii have good reason to want the Latin bastards humbled and their power crushed. The Romans though are resilient and these cursed lice.” He crushed another. “Hannibal may well win a battle, but if the war is lost, the Latins will be at my people’s throat like wolves on a lamb.”
Caros belched, his stomach unused to such quantities of ale.
“Can it be worse than it is now?”
Maleric grunted. “Perhaps. From what I see, the Carthaginian is as onerous a neighbor as the Latins.” He shifted forward on the bench. “I am no great thinker, but I find it strange that many of these men and women were talking of taking up their spears to fight the Carthaginians.” He waved a hand at the revelry. “Now they are celebrating a Carthaginian victory?”
“The difference is that we know the Carthaginians.” He rubbed his face. “I think Hannibal’s victory bring us one step closer to ending the war. Once the war is over the taxes will end and people can grow wealthy on trade again.”
Maleric stood up. “I have a promise to keep.” He patted the front of his braccae and winked. He took a step and turned back. “This thing with the elders and taxes. It will not end well and the war against Rome is far from over.” He placed a meaty hand on Caros’ shoulder. “I think you already know this and in case you had forgotten; there is a victorious Roman army not too many days north of here.”
Caros leaned back with a deep sigh. Maleric’s words left him with a sour stomach. The Carthaginians had to heed the elders, he thought. Surely when they realized the tax collectors were abusing their trust and starving the Bastetani, they would intervene. A cold gust swept through the room, guttering the lamps and fanning the flames of the hearth fire. All sense of celebration fled Caros, and he pulled his cloak tight with a curse.
Morning came with a squall of cold rain that made cooking impossible and the warriors foul tempered. They reeked of sour ale, and days of accumulated sweat and dirt. Lice infested and ill from too much ale the day before, they cursed the weather, the gods and one another.
Berenger was astride his mount beneath a spreading fig tree that sheltered him from the worst of the rain. Asril sat his mount beside the wagon, his heavy cloak tied at his throat and a hood covering his head.
The squall passed and shadowy sunlight emerged. Berenger urged his horse towards the wagon and slapped the driver’s shoulder.
“Get them moving.” He watched as the man flicked his whip expertly out over the heads of the pair of oxen, cracking it with a loud snap. The animals lowed and leaned into their traces, straining to pull the heavy wagon piled high with the choicest items from the village. The great wooden wheels shifted and began to turn.
“Now keep them moving smoothly until I tell you otherwise.”
He did not need to raise his voice or bluster with threats. Intimidation was often more effective with quiet menace and a cold demeanor. In response, the wagon driver cracked his whip louder above the ears of the oxen.
Berenger watched the twenty escorting warriors under his command fall into step behind the wagon. Spears couched on shoulders, shields tied on their back and their cloaks already dripping wet.
They had been on the road since several days before the last full moon and had visited twelve villages. Three of them, the three most remote, had suffered brutally. Under their last leading man, the warriors had been permitted to thieve and even coerce the occasional desperate women into performing lewd favors.
Berenger had bound them to him when at the first of the remote villages he ordered every villager gathered to its center. On the pretext of them having tried to hide their wealth, he then ordered his warriors to kill a village elder’s son. The villagers had wept and raged, but ringed by spears, they could do nothing. Since they had no wealth to offer, Berenger then invited two of the more brutal men in his ranks to violate the elder’s daughter before the horrified villagers. He had watched the warriors circling the villagers keenly as their two fellows fell to their task with brutal delight. Their looks change from surprise to interest. The sobbing young woman was thrown back amongst the wailing villagers. When again Berenger demanded they bring forth their hidden wealth, the rest of the warriors almost cheered aloud when the elder again exclaimed they had no more to give.
It was the signal Berenger wanted and with what he supposed might be a mournful face, he turned to his warriors.
“I had hoped it would not come to this, but they value their wealth more than their honor.” The warriors had watched him unblinking, their jaws clenched and their blades ready. “On my word, kill them all as you see fit.” He held up his hand to halt them. “So long as none are spared or escape.” He extended his hand. “You have the rest of the day.”
On reflection, Berenger supposed that the people of that first village had been the most unfortunate. The warriors were eager and unpracticed. Their killing strokes messy and untrained. Even with the women, many had baulked and not participated in the violations. He turned back to survey this third village. They had cut the throats of seven women just that morning. The rest had succumbed in the day and night past. It was a testament to how fast the warriors learned to savor their lusts and make them last. Every man among them was now dedicated to Berenger. Even Asril, the unimaginative tax collector. They had all gained full purses, eaten richly and drank away what would have been a full season’s wages. They had all committed acts that would see them nailed a dozen times to boards where they would die in agony. There would be none that spoke of what they had seen and done.
Yet, Berenger knew he had to make an example. Men were fools by nature, especially ones of this kind. They had to be shown in vivid detail or they would soon forget and at the next town, with a belly full of cheap ale, their tongues would start to flap and from there it would not be long before every one of them was hunted down and executed.
The sun grew in strength and the wagon driver kept his charges trundling on, up hills and over gushing streams. By the middle of the afternoon they found the road turning east. By nightfall they were in the lands of the Bastetani once again.
After they had eaten the evening meal, Asril glanced at Berenger apprehensively.
“What is it? I would sleep now, but you clearly have a concern.”
The tax collector scratched the scabs from a string of insect bites on his wrist.
“There is a village a day or two from here whose people caused me much distress and lose of esteem.”
“It is remote?”
“Yes… no. No, it is a day’s travel from Tagilit.”
“Then you know my answer.”
“I am convinced the bastards really do have some wealth. Proper wealth as in coins, perhaps silver, maybe a little gold.”
He was wringing his hands, a habit Berenger would have liked to cut out of him with a blunt knife. One day.
“Surely that would justify the risk? I thought we could report that we had discovered it ransacked and the people all killed. That would throw suspicion elsewhere. Perhaps even on the Romans.”
Berenger grunted and laughed. It must have shocked the tax collector for he skittered back on his arse end, his jaw flapping in fright.
“That was you thinking?” He laughed harder. “Then do us a favor and leave that to me.” His mirth depleted, he rubbed his chin. “It will be a risk, so there will be no time for frolicking. We enter through the gates and then blades out and gut them. No drinking, no games. Turn the place inside out and walk away the same day.” He nodded to himself, not bothering to ask Asril’s opinion. Then he glared at the tax collector. “No bloody tales about Romans either. Stupidest idea I ever heard.”
Chapter 5
Qart Hadasht, the prosperous Carthaginian stronghold established by Hamilcar Barca a scant decade earlier, was the epicenter of trade between Iberia and Carthage and many other cities besides. The roads leading it from the north, west and south were busy with trains of wagons and baggage mules. For this reason, it was well patrolled by Masulian horsemen and African spearmen who served to prevent bandits from raiding for the wealth that flowed to and from the city.
The Barca clan had established a complex of administrative offices within the safety of the walls from where their army of commissars and administrators contrived to wring every stater of wealth from the territories they ruled.
Caros glared at the back of the last of the Bastetani elders to disappear into the lodging house. It had taken all his patience to herd them to the city and the seven-day journey had been a sore trial. Neugen and Rappo grinned at him as they took the horses off to the stable yards and Maleric threw an obscene gesture at the elders.
Howl of Blades Page 5